


Beyond the Blue

by vintage1983



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Life-Affirming Sex, Love, Older Characters, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 09:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintage1983/pseuds/vintage1983
Summary: It has been 25 years since Wendy returned to Neverland and sought out Hook. Her life has moved on and he is merely a distant dream, until a storm comes in and washes up far more than she expected.Can be read as a stand alone story, but very much follows the events of Back to the Blue by Laurielove and I would highly recommend reading that first.





	Beyond the Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laurielove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurielove/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Back to the Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/105391) by [Laurielove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurielove/pseuds/Laurielove). 

> Written with deepest respect and admiration, I am eternally grateful to Laurielove for allowing me to write and share this. I felt it was right because none of us can be 19 forever. I hope I do it justice. If you haven't read Back to the Blue go and do it immediately. For once, my customary apology does not stand, I am absolutely not sorry, not one bit. 
> 
> For women everywhere, of all ages. Hold on to your dreams. 
> 
> And most of all, for my Wendy, darling x

Wendy lay awake in her bed. The storm raged outside. The steady rhythm of heavy rain tapping against the windowpane was intermittently interrupted by a violent gust of wind that would rattle the glass in its frame. She did not mind the storm, more than that, she adored it. It was a living, breathing, weeping being calling out in the dark. She felt its passion, and its anger, and its thirst. It was a jealous, lust-fuelled lover beating at the door. Sometimes it would stir those dormant feelings within her. Not tonight, tonight the beast outside was a misunderstood outsider who brought her peace, its snorts and tears would gently rock her to sleep with the ease and dedication of the most faithful of nurse maids. It would lull and comfort her, then transport her to a world of vivid technicolour, another place, another time, to where she was truly free: her dreams. Wendy closed her eyes and attuned to the sounds of the night. Amongst the cacophony of howling wind and beating rain and the thrashing of the waves against the headland, she could just make out the much gentler sound of the breakers meeting the beach in the cove below. It sung like a soft lullaby and she began to drift into sleep.

Wendy was no longer a Darling. She had wanted to marry. Her instinct to hold out for the passion and excitement she craved had fought a war of attrition with the expectations of others. Aunts and well-meaning old dears had reminded her what society demanded. The fear and dread of being marked as a spinster loomed. “You will never find a decent man then.” They had clucked and pecked away at her until something inside snapped. Wendy had thought herself grown up at nineteen, but even then, she was still cossetted from the stark realities of the world. War came. The Captain of the first eleven she had shared a soft a chaste kiss with did not come home. Many of the studious boys of her Oxford days were lost to foreign fields. The world grew dark and Wendy decided she needed a good man, whatever that was. She was not unhappy. It was not without love, or care, or kindness, but as the years rolled on it grew dull and Wendy grew tired. He was without doubt a good man; he had never once achieved the dizzying peaks of a night in the cabin of Captain James Hook.

Time wore away the imprint of Hook. She could go months, even years without giving him much thought. He was as distant as the remainder of a dream. Wendy had two beautiful children, for those she was eternally thankful to her husband. When they were small, she often told them tales of Neverland, of Peter Pan and his Lost Boys, of crocodiles and of course, of pirates. They sat up in their beds listening, urging her for more, wishing for the tale to never reach an end. They hung on her every word. She was, after all a storyteller. They cheered for Peter’s triumphs and she smiled warmly and deeply, as her own childhood sprung back to life in their eyes. They cowered beneath the covers at the mention of the fearsome pirate captain and his crew, of his swordsmanship and terrifying metal hook, and she would comfort and reassure them as loving mothers do. Sometimes Wendy would grow wistful and misty eyed.

“Mother, whatever is wrong? You look so sad. Are you afraid the pirate will come and take us away?”

“No, my darlings, I am your mother and I would not allow it. Besides, Captain Hook is long gone.”

Wendy would sigh and tuck them safely into their beds, bidding them goodnight and sealing it with a soft kiss on each of their heads. She always checked the window in the nursery before she turned out the light.

“Will Peter Pan come for us tonight?”

Peter had never returned to Wendy since the night he had brought her to Neverland, and she had sought out Hook. He had come to understand that she had matured and he would remain a boy. The deep affection she held for him never faded, but she had nothing to offer him anymore. In his eyes, Wendy had become that most hated of things: a grown-up.

“Perhaps, but you must close your eyes and not wait up for him, or he most certainly will not.”

Wendy’s hand hovered over the bolt on the window. Maternal instinct was strong. It told her to protect her children and keep them safe. Instead she left it ajar. More than anything she wanted her children to live. Perhaps if Peter came, then _he_ might… She banished that thought immediately.

“Sleep and dream, goodnight,” she whispered as she turned out the light.

Though she had fought convention at every turn, at some point Wendy had become first and foremost a wife and a mother. While she continued to write occasional pieces for The Times, increasingly her time and creativity were consumed by domestic matters. There was never a moment she resented her children for it, but now they were grown her interest was returning. They had both left the nest and my, how they had flown. Wendy swelled with pride at their accomplishments. Even in more liberated times than those she had grown up in, she was still urged to constrict her daughter and encourage her son, to steer him to finance or the sciences, or some other ‘acceptable’ form of living, and to ensure her daughter found a good match. She wouldn’t hear a word of it. Instead she encouraged them to choose the paths that made them happy. Her husband, as he often did, expressed no feelings either way and provided it required no action from him was happy to allow Wendy to parent the children as she saw fit. Once the children had left home, it was Wendy who had insisted they abandoned London and moved to a cottage by the sea. It was picturesque and the air was clean. It could be dull and parochial, but Wendy had often found the hustle and bustle of city life tedious. She didn’t miss it, but gladly traded endless teas with well-to-do, bored housewives for time alone to wander the coast and spark her imagination once more. Searching for fulfilment, she began to write again. Though it didn’t thrill him, her husband said nothing. It seemed to make her happy in a way he had never quite mastered. Her husband took up golf.

Drifting in that place between wake and sleep, the beast growled from outside. It’s first rumblings broke into a crack so loud and ferocious it may have broken the sky. The beast screamed from deep within the night. Wendy stirred and counted under her breath, “One, two, three, four.” The room was illuminated. She waited. The sky growled again. Now fully awake, she could not resist and sprung from her bed. There was nothing she liked more than to look out across the sea and observe nature’s light show.

“Ouch,” she cried out.

In her haste to rush to the window she had been careless and struck her hip against the open drawer. There was another violent clash in the sky above. She stared down at it. It was the drawer she had never been able to fully close. Even now she paused, something prevented her from slamming it shut out of resentment for the pain it had caused. Yet, she could not. She could not bring herself to hate it. The chest of drawers had stayed with her, from her bedroom as a girl, to her first home at the start of married life. She had insisted it was brought from the city to the sea. Her husband had urged her to replace it with lighter, modern furniture, but she had held firm. The attachment to it ran deep. If someone else passed by and pushed the drawer closed, she was always sure to correct it the second she noticed. Sometimes she had only left the drawer open the tiniest crack, barely noticeable to anyone else, sometimes she would leave it wide open in a plea of desperation. Tonight, it sat like that. The lightning struck again and lit up the room as she looked down at its contents. Old, faded love notes were folded in amongst filled journals, an item of scandalous underwear she had purchased in Paris that felt so good against her skin and was never truly appreciated, lay crumpled inside. Somewhere, buried amongst the papers nestled something with a life of its own, something that she rarely thought of, but could not forget. Somewhere within that draw lay a kiss.

A flood of melancholy came as she looked down into the drawer. At some point Wendy’s dreams had faded. It occurred to her that drawer was filled with her past. The tempest outside interrupted her thoughts, demanding her attention, and she squeezed through the gap between the bed and the open drawer and made her way to the window.

The gaps between thunder and lightening grew shorter. Flinging open the curtains, she looked out into the night. Nature did not disappoint. Flashing forks of white light fired from the clouds to the horizon like the trident of an angry God. It thrilled and moved her with its power. A more primal part of her longed to run out and dance naked in it like a wild, untamed pagan giving thanks to Mother Nature. Of course, she did not. She questioned if she should run and wake her husband to see it. Deep down she knew he would be unmoved and only complain that she had roused him at an ungodly hour. The sea swelled and swirled; the battered headland held firm against the onslaught. Even the quiet cove below was not immune. The surf was smashing against the sand, the tide now racing rapidly towards the cliffs. It was there something caught her eye. She couldn’t be certain. The sky lit up again. Focusing on the beach, there was a dark shape. The edge of the waves were already starting to lick against it. She squinted. It looked like a figure. It looked like a man. Wendy’s heart leapt up into her throat.

Perhaps it was merely driftwood, or something else washed up from an old wreck, nothing but flotsam and jetsam. In minutes the remaining strip of sand would be consumed by the furious sea and whatever, or whoever it was would be lost forever or smashed to pieces against the cliff face. There was nothing else to be done. Wendy would have to check. If it was merely junk then she would return to the house soaked, but in good conscience. There was a deep rumbling sound as she crossed the landing. This time it emanated from within the house, the neighbouring bedroom to be precise. She paused. Best let sleeping dogs lie. If she dragged him from his bed to investigate a piece of wood on the beach, she would never hear the end of it and there was something else. It was something nameless and indescribable, a feeling she couldn’t shake. Wendy felt she must do this alone.

Scurrying downstairs, she threw her coat on over her night dress and pushed her feet into her husband’s Wellington boots. They would slow her down but were the speediest and most practical option to hand. She grabbed the lamp by the door and made her way out into the night.

The wind rocked and batted her from side to side as she struggled down the path. Though the oversize boots made her clumsy and graceless, they had a weight to them she was grateful for. As she reached end of the garden and wrestled with the gate, she felt certain she would be swept up into sky like a kite. The rain fell horizontally. It pricked at her cheeks and fingers like tiny needles. Clutching her coat to her chest did little good and she was already soaked through to the skin by the time she made her way along the dirt track towards the beach. She would make good progress, but every few paces the wind would pick up and try to drive her back. Wendy fought to reach the stone steps that clung precariously to the cliff-face and led directly onto the beach. They were steep and narrow; each worn step was made slick and slippery from the rainwater. It gathered in their centres in gloomy, grey pools. Time and tide had eroded them, and she feared the edges may crumble in the storm’s brutal assault. Clinging on tightly to the metal railing, she swallowed hard as it creaked with the strain and she gingerly lowered herself onto the first step. The tide had crept in a few more feet. On the third step she lost her footing and slipped, she clung on for dear life, hugging the railing. The lamp swung violently like a pendulum. 

“Less haste, Wendy, less haste. One at a time.”

Taking a deep breath, she forged on. There was some respite as she descended further down, and the cliff provided some shelter from the wind. It seemed as though the rain was starting to ease. The urge to rush and hurry was tempered by how close she had come to tumbling down the steps only moments before. The dark shape still lay motionless. The tide had advanced and as she reached the final step and her boots pressed into soft wet sand there was relief. Closer now, she could see the shape more clearly and Wendy could at least be certain it was indeed a man on the shore and her efforts had not been wasted on an old lump of wood. He lay face down, one arm stretched out in front of him, motionless and now covered almost to his waist by the incoming waves. Time was not on her side. She pushed on.

“Hello, hello there!”

Wendy called out, waving frantically as she ran as fast as he legs could carry her. There was no response.

“Are you alright? Can you hear me? The tide is coming in.”

She called again. Still nothing. Fear gripped her, but she would not give up hope. Wendy reached the man and planted the lamp down firmly in the sand. In the blackness of night, it was barely enough to make him out. She grabbed his hand and tugged at it. It was warm, a finger wiggled at the contact. Another wave of relief washed over her.

“Come on. You must get up. You must move if you can. I fear I can’t carry you.”

Wendy was exasperated. She ran there with all the good intentions in the world and nothing resembling a plan. Desperately searching for ideas, she dragged at his arm. It stirred a little then fell limply back to the ground. Another wave rushed in.

“Please, you must, or you will drown.”

Wendy tugged so hard she thought she might yank the poor man’s arm from its socket. Perhaps if she took hold and pulled both arms, she might have more success. His other arm lay equally motionless by his side. Patting her way from the shoulder, she felt her way along the muscles, past his elbow and down his forearm. Reaching beneath the surface of the water she gripped his submerged hand.

She leapt back.

At first from the sharp sting of the cold metal that had sliced into her palm, and then at the realisation. Wendy stood frozen. Though the crash and bang of water against rock and the squall of the wind carried on around her, the world suddenly became quiet. She could hear the beating of her own heart clearly, everything else was muffled and distant as if she were beneath the ocean, drowning. Thick crimson drops of blood poured from her hand and were diluted into the sea. Dizzy and light-headed, still she could not move. The sharp sting of the cut was forgotten. Slowly, she allowed her gaze to lower. Her mouth had fallen open. Thick black curls trailed down at his shoulders and disappeared into the torn, billowing, black shirt he wore. Though she could not see his face, Wendy knew, without doubt or hesitation. It was James Hook.

Saltwater splashing against her boots and soaking the hem of her nightgown pulled Wendy from her daze. Of all the beaches, of all the men, of all the would-be rescuers to come to his aid it was here; it was _him_; it was her. As she looked properly, he was unmistakable. A thousand thoughts and questions raced through her mind. Now was not the time. He had to get up. Still Hook did not respond. Rage and frustration swelled in her chest.

“James Hook get up this instant. I shall leave you here to drown. Don’t think I won’t. The sea can have you. I’ll let it.”

Still nothing.

“Come on. Hopeless, useless, good for nothing man. Move. Get up.”

In sheer frustration, she kicked him in his ribs. There was a groan and Hook began to stir. Rolling over onto his back, his eyes shot open. Even in the black of night they sparkled and shone in bright azure. There was a flash of red in his iris and he suddenly snapped to life. Reaching up he grabbed Wendy by the collar and dragged her down to within an inch of his nose, their faces almost touching. Wendy’s heart raced.

“A siren?”

There was a glint of madness in his eyes. He stared hard at her. Wendy could not speak, she stared back wide-eyed.

“No,” he said, his features visibly softening. “A Wendy Darling, it is my _darling_ Wendy who has come to save me.”

Hook grinned up at her, releasing his grip and springing to his feet like a spritely schoolboy. Wendy scowled and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

“You mean you could get up. You were perfectly capable of getting up of your own accord and you didn’t. You are not injured, or incapacitated.”

She was incensed. Hook cocked his eyebrow and smiled devilishly.

“Best play dead if a siren may be coming to take you to your watery grave. But there you are instead, Wendy Darling, here and in the flesh.”

She did not flinch. He extended his hand towards her. Wendy glared at it.

“Perhaps you are a siren after all, come to lure a man to the rocks to meet his fate.”

Hook beckoned to her, his hand still waiting expectantly.

“Come, we must go, or the tide will take us.”

Whatever her feelings were towards him, she had to concede on this occasion, Hook was right. She was exhausted and would at least appreciate the help back up those steps. Reluctantly, Wendy took his hand.

They walked silently along the clifftop. The storm was subsiding now. The waves sounded close beneath them. She shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if she had not been drawn to the window, if she had not have seen him on the beach. Would he not have moved? Would he be drowned and be gone forever? Until a few minutes ago she had thought him lost to her. Every time she went to speak, she could not find the words. She found her pace slowing to a crawl as the white picket fence grew closer. Wendy had given no though to what would happen when they reached it.

Hook had guided her back up the steps, gripping her hand in his and latching on to the railing with his hook. He had almost danced up them with ease, while Wendy had been laboured and plodding. Yet, he remained patient and considerate. Barely a word was spoken, bar him steadying and encouraging her. The clomping of the boots along the track and the crunch of wet gravel underfoot were the only sounds now. She cursed the boots, ungainly, ugly things, then cursed herself for caring. Wendy was tiring and he strode out a few paces in front of her. Hook still swaggered. Against the lamplight his silhouette was striking. Wendy found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the shape of his muscular back. It stirred want that had lain waiting, undisturbed for so long. He stopped. The hook glinted in the light.

“Come along my dear, do try to keep up.”

The sheer arrogance of that man confounded her. There he was alive and well and insufferable. Sometimes she had imagined he must be dead, slain by a rival for treasure, or in a gambling disagreement in some shady bar in an exotic port. The notion had made her sad. Other times she imagined he had found someone else or had a different girl to profess his love to in every port. He had professed it to her. Hook had told her he loved her. Wendy considered she had simply been forgotten in amongst an endless stream of willing women. Her eyes had reddened and welled at the thought she was nothing to him. It stung her deeply. She had not expected him to disregard his life for her, she was not willing to do the same for him, but Wendy had believed they were bound together and at some point he would return to her and they could again share something brief, but beautiful. He never did. In amongst the hurt and rage, the confusion and uncertainty a familiar feeling stood out: disappointment. Wendy knew it well. She never expected James Hook to be the cause of it.

She stopped abruptly.

“This is my house.”

“And a fine house it is too,” Hook replied.

Wendy couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She gently pushed open the gate. Hook followed her down the path. She kept moving, half-hoping he would simply disappear into the night, the other half needing him still to be there. Opening the door, finally she forced herself to turn. The light fell on his face and she saw him properly for the first time that night. Just as handsome as ever, though some of the lines on his face had deepened a little and a handful of new fine ones had appeared around his eyes, he had barely aged, certainly not commensurate to the time that had passed.

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

Wendy smiled weakly, suddenly conscious of the effect of life, and time, and motherhood on her own face and body.

“Nor have you.”

Wendy scoffed.

He stroked a thick, damp strand of hair that had stuck itself to her cheek and swept it gently behind her ear. She found herself leaning into it, inhaling deeply.

“James, you know I have,” she sighed and pulled away, but Hook caught her wrist.

“Not through my eyes. You are as beautiful and as lovely as ever. Perhaps more so. Being a woman becomes you.”

“But I am not a young one anymore.”

“No, but you are not an old one and one day you will make a fine old lady, but that time is not now. In the present you are truly a woman and you are still a good deal younger than I.”

Wendy knew she should bid him goodnight, go into the house and lock the door. It was the right and proper thing to do. She climbed the step and now stood blocking the doorway. The light fell fully onto her face. He looked at her intently.

“Oh, my Wendy. Still my Wendy.”

Wendy weakened.

“Well, I suppose you have almost drowned tonight and you are soaked to the skin. It would be rude and very un-Christian of me to turn you away into the night with nowhere to go. At this late hour, even the inn will be closed. You can come in and dry off, but then you must go.”

Hook nodded and grinned. It was full of wickedness and spark.

She questioned her decision; he was still a pirate after all. Wendy did not fear James Hook. She believed she had, once, a lifetime ago, but even then, it was not him that terrified her. Just like the night on the ramparts of the Black Castle, when she had concealed herself behind the rocks and watched him, it was not Hook that she feared, it was her own feelings.

Pulling her feet out of the Wellingtons, she stepped further into the house. Hook boldly strode in after her into the narrow hallway. They were squeezed tightly together. Unable to look him in the eye, she focused on peeling off the soaked coat. He moved aside in an uncharacteristically gentlemanly manner and promptly battered into the console table. The inner workings of the clock clanged, and a porcelain figure of a shepherdess toppled over noisily. Wendy shushed him angrily. Her gaze flitted to the staircase. Without the heavy percussion of the storm, sounds were hard to mask in the cottage. She held her hand up and listened. There was only silence. Wendy picked up the shepherdess and set her back down neatly in her place. She spied a note, scrawled in her husband’s handwriting on the back of an envelope. ‘Gone to Aunt Ginny’s. Roof in the storm. Didn’t want to disturb. May not be back tonight.’ Wendy was reminded of something: he was a good man. A pang of guilt stabbed at her as she glanced at James Hook in her hallway.

She signalled him into the kitchen and closed the door. Cottage doors were old, thick, heavy and solid and she hoped it might continue the ruse that they required some barrier to sound as there was someone else in the house. Hook stood in her kitchen. His sodden clothes dripped down onto the stone floor. His shirt clung to every sinew; his damp curls glistened in the light. It was a strange sight to behold; a pirate captain stood, ravaged by the ocean, in a very ordinary, English, country kitchen. Wendy busied herself filling the kettle and lighting the hob.

“Tell me, Wendy Darling, where have you been?”

Hook’s voice boomed. Wendy shuddered.

“I haven’t been Wendy Darling for a long time and keep your voice down, my husband is asleep upstairs.”

“Ah,” he shrugged, as if he knew and did not care. “Might he come down and challenge me to a duel? I find myself without a sword.” He laughed, certainly undeterred by the situation.

“No, of course he won’t. People don’t do that sort of thing anymore. They haven’t for an age,” she answered curtly and put the kettle on to boil.

“And won’t he be missing you…in his bed. I would miss you in my bed.”

“Well you obviously haven’t,” she snapped, “And…”

“And…” his eyebrow danced.

“If you must know I have my own room.”

Hook closed the space between them, she was pinned at the kitchen counter, his arms imprisoning her at either side. Wendy leant back, searching for an extra inch of space. There was none; her position only forced her to look up into his eyes. Hook smirked. How dare he? How dare he mock her life. She tried to wriggle away only to find her wrist trapped under his hook, the razor-sharp point digging into the surface of the kitchen bench. His body pressed against hers, his eyes were twinkling, searching, examining her face.

“Well, if you are not Wendy Darling, you are still my darling and I can assure you that if you were mine, I would have you in my bed every night.”

He leant closer. She was trapped and hypnotised.

“In fact, I might never let you get back out of it.”

Closer still. She could feel his breath, the faintest tickle of his moustache. Her breathing was rapid, and her heart heaved and pounded in her chest.

“Though he isn’t here, is he Wendy? He is out taking care of Aunt Ginny, but who is here to take care of you?”

He missed nothing. Wendy turned her head away; he knew she was here alone, and those forget-me-not eyes were weakening her resolve. He whispered low and soft in her ear.

“Have you missed me, Wendy?”

“You never came back,” she spat.

“Look at me Wendy, I am here now, am I not?”

Raising his hand to her cheek he gently turned her to face him again. Though she tried to keep her eyes closed, she could not maintain it. It was now Wendy who was close to drowning. Their lips almost touching, her head tilting, she moved to meet him.

The loud whistle of the kettle broke the spell.

He released her and she rushed to silence it. Even through the thick oven mitt, she felt searing pain in her palm as she lifted the heavy kettle. She recoiled in pain. Wendy had forgotten the cut. It ran deep, a ruby slash from her thumb to her little finger. The bleeding had stopped, but now the wound reopened, and it started to seep again. A gloopy, scarlet drop splashed onto the floor. Hook followed its path, bewildered.

“You are cut. Have I done this? Did I hurt you Wendy?”

He looked remorseful and confused.

“Yes, but not intentionally.”

“I never meant to cause you harm, Wendy. Never.”

“It was down on the beach. I reached for your…your hand and well, I wasn’t to know, I couldn’t have expected…Really, please it’s fine. I’m fine.”

She spoke quickly and turned her back on him to face the sink and ran the cold-water tap.

“I’m going to clean this up, you’re still completely soaked to the skin. Go and dry yourself by the fire.”

He did not move at first. Sensing he was about to speak, to offer words she was not yet ready to hear, instead she filled the silence.

“Go, go on. Across the hall. You are soaking my kitchen floor.”

Wendy exhaled deeply once she was certain he had gone. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

By the time she entered the front room carrying a tray, she had composed herself. She had cleaned and dressed the cut on her hand and splashed her face with cold water. Dainty cups perched on matching saucers as if she was serving tea to the vicar. As she bent to place it on the coffee table, her eyes met with the soles of Hook’s boots.

“Get those filthy boots off there. And goodness me, get out of that chair, you’re ruining it.”

Wendy was not excessively house proud, but it was her husband’s chair of choice. She pictured him reading the Sunday paper there. Instead she patted at a stone plinth at the side of the fire.

“Sit there. You can’t sit in that chair, dripping onto the furniture.”

Hook smirked.

It made her shiver and sent a small jolt of electricity through her body. He drew himself to his feet and complied obediently. She poked angrily at the dying embers in the fire. Reaching for the coal scuttle, she brushed against his thigh. Though the fire in the hearth was weak, the flames burned bright within her. She snatched at the copper bucket and winced as it aggravated the cut.

“Shall I…”

Her scowl cut him off and she irately poured on the coal. 

“Dry off and have some tea.”

“Tea?” he said bemused as he examined the delicate china teacup. “Have you nothing stronger? A decent cognac to warm the blood, some wine, perhaps? I remember you rather enjoyed the wine in my cabin.”

There was little in the house to offer, a half-consumed bottle of sherry left over from Christmas and a fine single malt that belonged to her husband.

“I made tea. You can have tea.”

Hook looked up, his gaze floated over her, his jaw tightening. She became self-conscious and followed his eyes. Still sodden and against the gentle glow of the fire, her nightdress had become virtually transparent. The damp and cold made her nipples stand up, jutting out prominently from beneath the thin cotton garment. The way he was looking at her made a tight knot coil in her belly, made her ache deep within herself. Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips nervously. Hook watched the motion of her tongue. Want and need surged through her. She could not remember the last time someone looked at her like that, perhaps nobody else had ever bored into her soul with so much untamed hunger. Enough! It had to stop. Wendy perched on the opposite plinth and hugged her arms tightly around herself.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“A shipwreck, in a storm.”

“Is that all?” Wendy knew she had barely repressed the echo of disappointment in her voice.

“I am a pirate, Wendy. What more can you expect?”

She sighed.

“Then you still haven’t grown out of it? I sometimes think you are as much a child as Peter.”

“Pan,” he hissed. “And does that dear boy still come to see you?”

“No. I grew up, remember?” There was a pause. She had something burning to say and the first two attempts got stuck in her throat. She took a sip of tea.

“You never came back.”

Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked a little.

“Nor did you.”

“To Neverland? How could I? You said you would leave there, find new adventures. How was I to find you?”

“As always, you are right. How long has it been?”

“Twenty-five years, a little more in fact.”

Hook’s face changed.

“Oh Wendy, my darling, darling girl. I did not know. In truth I did not know. Time is different there, it passes differently. I am sorry. Believe I am sorry.”

“I believe you, and I believe it does pass differently. You have barely aged, but how can you not look at me and not know? Time has been so kind to you and I, well, I grow to resemble my Great Aunt Mildred more and more each day.”

“Then I should very much like to be introduced to your Great Aunt Mildred, for she must be a very beautiful woman indeed.”

Wendy laughed softly.

“I can look at you and not know. You look the same to me, still as lovely and beautiful as ever. She, she who entered my cabin a girl and left a woman. I have never forgotten you, Wendy, though it seems you have done well enough without me”

Hook looked up at the photographs on the mantlepiece, a montage of Wendy’s life in silver frames: her wedding day; two smiling, bouncing babies; a smart and handsome young man and a young woman not unlike Wendy.

“I rather did, didn’t I?”

Hook nodded.

“Where have you been? What have you done in these years, James? Were you in Neverland all that time? All of that piracy, you must have stories to tell.”

“You are the storyteller, Wendy, not I. We sailed and explored. Piracy is not what it used to be in this modern world of yours and my crew and I returned to the sport of tormenting Pan.”

Wendy noticed he was nowhere near dry and a pool of water had collected on the stone where he sat.

“You should get out of those wet things; you’ll catch your death.”

His eyebrow shot up.

“Why, Wendy, you only had to say, and I will happily undress. I recommend you do the same before you catch a chill.”

He purred as he spoke.

“Stop it. They’ll dry quicker that way. You can’t be here all night.”

She tried to summon the stern voice she had used to chastise her children. It was never truly convincing then, it wasn’t now.

Hook rose to his feet and peeled off his shirt. Wendy inhaled sharply. He was still very much Man. Toned and taut she fought the urge to stare, she fought against that knot within her that was forming and tightening again, tugging at an invisible chord which made her ache. She pushed her thighs together to try and stifle the throb between them.

Wendy’s eye was drawn to something that had not been there before. He had always been peppered with scars. They had fascinated and thrilled her. This was large and she was sure she would have remembered it. Pale and white it was old, but she was certain she had never seen it.

“You were shot. That bullet wound does look nasty. Where did you acquire that? A hand to hand fight on the deck? No, a bar fight? I know! An angry, scorned lover who could not stand to see you leave? Or a lover’s angry, scorned husband. Yes, that must be it.”

She was like a giddy schoolgirl, excited by it. She had forgotten that thrill.

“In France,” he replied.

“France? Then it must be the jealous lover.”

A shadow fell across his face. Hook sighed.

“An Englishman must defend his country, Wendy. Though I may be a pirate, when all is said and done, I am still an Englishman.”

Her mouth fell open. Never had she imagined such things would concern him. Lost for words, she mumbled, “I understand.” It seemed so utterly inadequate.

Hook turned away, as if he couldn’t bare to face her.

“Do you, Wendy? I once told you I had killed men.”

“You did. I know it and accept it.”

“But I had always killed men like me. Not there. They were ordinary men, probably like the one who sleeps upstairs, desperate to return to their wives and children. I saw boys fall beside me, trampled into the mud and left there. When it was done, I ran away. I returned to Neverland and vowed never to leave it, to play at fighting with Pan and to never return to this godforsaken world.”

Tears filled Wendy’s eyes.

“Then you are not a villain at all, but a hero.”

She got to her feet and stepped forward. He still did not turn to face her. She reached out tentatively. Wendy stroked his back. She wanted to believe she was offering him comfort; she knew it was far more than that. Her arms curled around him and she rested her head against him, planting a soft kiss on the mark of the exit wound on his shoulder. Pressed against him, she inhaled him, though the damp and smell of the sea hung on him, that familiar musky scent, the faint odour of alcohol and tobacco was still there. They stayed there for a moment. Still and silent. It was bliss.

“Wendy,” he said softly, “I am still a villain.”

“I know. You will always be my villain.”

He broke away, only to turn and tug her into his arms.

“I have missed you, Wendy.”

The heat of him burned through the cool, damp of her nightdress and a heat of her own was stoked and raged within her. He coiled her hair around his hook, his hand cupping her face.

“I waited, I wanted…” she murmured.

“You did not wait too long.”

“Why should I? How could I? Twenty-five years, James, Twenty-five years. Did you expect that of me? Because you have no right.”

She beat her fist against his chest.

“What if I had? Where would I be now? I never closed the drawer. Never.”

“You have something there.”

His fingers traced over her lips. Her eyes closed and her stomach lunged.

“What?” she rasped.

“You know, Wendy. You know it’s a kiss. There. For me.”

He stroked at the corner of her mouth with the pad of his forefinger. She held her breath as he ran it softly along her lower lip and dragged it with him as he pulled away. Once again, it was Wendy who was submerged, fighting for breath and unable to swim. Tilting her head, she parted her lips and pleaded with him to give her life.

Hook responded. The kiss was rough, his tongue searching until it met hers. Wendy breathed into him and through him. His teeth dragged at her lower lip, making her whine with need. She could feel him, hard and ready, pushing against her. Her arms had snaked around his neck and she dragged her fingers through his curls. He let out a low growl when they finally broke, yanking her head back with his hook to reveal the delicate, pale flesh of her neck. Wendy panted as he kissed and nipped at it with his teeth, firm enough to extract urgency and desire from her, gentle enough not to mark her. His hand roamed and cupped her breast through the cotton and she arched and willed him for more. She found herself grinding against him, seeking his need with her own. Excitement pooled between her legs.

Finally, he moved back. His eyes burned bright with lust. Wendy wanted him, she craved and ached and needed and she knew she could not deny him. Slowly, holding his gaze as long as she could, she took hold of her night gown and pulled it off over her head. It tumbled to the floor in a crumpled heap. Naked beneath it, she now stood before him simply as her, as his Wendy, as Woman.

The fire in his eyes burned away her doubt and self-consciousness. She knew he could see the silvery lines across her stomach, her own battle scars from carrying her children. She also knew her hips had widened, and her thighs had thickened. He looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman on Earth. He reverently viewed her as he would a goddess, and in that moment, he made her believe that was what she was.

Hook could stand it no more. Rushing to her, his mouth was on hers again, hungry and needy. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt the cold steel of the hook graze her nipple. Sucking air in through her teeth, he further exploited her want, pulling and plucking at the other. Each time he applied a little more pressure, teasing and testing. Each time Wendy made soft moans of approval, urging him to continue. The action of his tongue, in and out of her open mouth made her hips start to rock and writhe against him.

Abandoning her mouth, he lowered his head and took each pink, taut, swollen nub into his mouth in turn. He lapped and sucked gently, only to suddenly pinch and bite, making Wendy whimper in response, the curve of his hook still pressing and tormenting the other. His fingers found her wet, working their way along her slit, brushing at that special place. Wendy groaned deeply as he rubbed and circled, then worked one, then another finger inside her, driving them in and out as he continued to tug and suckle at her breast. Wendy adored it, body and soul responding to his touch. It sent sparks through her as he knowingly twisted and scissored his fingers within her. She clung tightly too him, her own ache deepening. He bit down again. It hurt and yet it was everything. Hook soothed her immediately with soft laps of his tongue, his fingers still buried within her.

Without warning, he stopped. She mourned the loss of his touch. Hook scooped her up and lay her down on the sofa behind them. Subconsciously and instinctively her arm fell across her stomach. Hook swatted it away.

“Hide no part of yourself from me Wendy. Not an inch of your flesh, nor a drop of your soul. You need not conceal it from me, it is part of your womanhood and I will fall to my knees and worship you.”

A soft trail of kisses marked a path across her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Slowly and painstakingly he traced each line and curve. Her tense body began to relax, and she sunk deeper into the settee.

“Open for me,” he commanded.

Her legs parted and she lay there exposed to him. Hook paused, he almost looked drunk, his eyes were glossy, and he drew in a long breath before running his thumb over her sex.

“Perfection.”

His thumb was replaced with the soft flat of his tongue. He lapped and flicked that tender spot so skilfully. Wendy’s back arched and her hips jerked involuntarily. Unable to resist she reached down to hold him there; she could not bare him to move away or stop. It was too delicious. There was no need. James Hook had no intentions of ceasing. He devoured her, quenching his thirst between the soaked folds. He ran his tongue slowly and wickedly along her sex. He repeated the action, offering her exquisite torment. She raised a knee trying to silently direct him to where she most desired his attention. Hook dragged it back down, slightly amused and ignoring her demands. Instead he licked and kissed at her inner thigh, each one in turn, creeping higher and higher and then pulling away, as if to punish her for her impatience. Anticipation and need flourished and Wendy growled in frustration. Hook acquiesced and returned his attention to her most sensitive bud.

It began to build within her, the heat, the tingling, her body starting to stiffen, she contracted and twitched, so close. Back and forth with the tip of his tongue, relentless, the perfect pressure, she began to soar. He felt it, sensed it and sucked it out of her, wringing out every last blissful second of it. Wendy came hard, the dam bursting, her vision blurred. She put a hand over her mouth to repress the ecstatic cries she longed to release but felt she could not. Instead she pushed that feeling back within herself and used it as she rode out every last shudder of pleasure.

He smirked up at her, pleased with himself and full of wickedness. She watched him undress, chewing at her lip expectantly. Hook impatiently yanked off his boots and shed the remainder of his clothes. She bit down harder at the sight of his manhood, thick and hard and ready. Wendy craved it, she ached to be filled. Lowering himself down on top of her, she felt it prodding against her belly. The ache deepened. They kissed, the taste of her excitement still coating his tongue. It thrilled her, she kissed him back, harder and deeper, wild with desire for him. That desire drove her to reach for him, taking the smooth, firm length of him in her hand, gripping, stroking. Hook let out a grunt of approval.

“I want it,” she rasped. “I need it.”

Wendy closed her hand tightly around the length of him and drew her hand steadily back and forth.

“What do you want?”

“You. This.”

Wendy tugged harder, increasing her speed, tightening her grip on him.

“Tell me, Wendy.” His tongue invaded her mouth again, his kiss deep and penetrating. Wendy revelled in her own ability to incite him. “Tell me.”

“Your cock, James. I want to be fucked.”

Hook had never heard her speak like that. It shocked and excited him. Even Wendy was stunned. She knew those words, she had imagined them, but never said them aloud. It aroused her, made her feel powerful and visceral. They were words whispered by mischievous schoolboys, hollered by uncouth dock workers, shouted by pirates and cried out by whores. She would never speak them to anyone else, or at any other time, but in this moment, they set her alight.

“Oh, Wendy. I must have you. Must have you, must, must, must,” he mumbled into her ear, barely coherent.

“Please, James, fuck me please.”

The needy urgency in her voice delighted him. Shuffling back, she reclined on the sofa and he positioned himself between her legs. She could barely contain it as she felt him nudging at her entrance, teasing, making her wait just a moment longer, then he thrust deep within her.

“There where I belong, in you.”

“Where you belong,” Wendy hoarsely echoed.

Oh, the stretch and the sting as he entered her was heaven. Though she was no longer the inexperienced girl he had first entered all those years ago, it had been some time since Wendy had been with a man. There was a constriction and a twinge as he first moved inside her. Wendy touched herself, sometimes in the loneliness of the night, seeking satisfaction. While she could stave off her need, her own fingers seemed so unfulfilling compared to the feel of him inside her.

“Wendy, my Wendy, still as tight and glorious as you ever were.”

Hook groaned deeply and began to rock back and forth into her, slowly at first, pushing all the way in, only to almost withdraw. Wendy bucked back against him, demanding more, desperate for the feeling of fullness she yearned for so badly. He obliged and drove into her again, as deeply as he could go. She had learnt a lot since the first time, with him, in his cabin and now she knew how to angle herself to derive the most sensation from each forceful thrust. She adjusted herself, wrapping her legs around him and raising her knees, inviting him further into her, to find and hit that place within her that made her body hum and tingle. Wendy coiled her fingers around the hook, avoiding the sharp point and knotted her fingers into his, fighting for air as he found that spot again, and again, and again.

Hook knew precisely how to draw it out of her, when to tease and pull away so that she pined for him to be deep inside her and when to push into her and fill her, and Wendy felt so wonderfully full and stretched and satisfied. He would bow his head and suck and bite at her nipple sending another spike of pleasure shooting directly between her legs. She writhed beneath him, urging him to do it again, to not leave its twin neglected. Hook obliged.

“Oh Wendy, my Wendy.”

As the rhythm and pace quickened, her breathing grew shallow, the ache inside her throbbed and drummed until she thought she might burst. She was close.

“Come, Wendy. It must be now. Come for me.”

He drew her nipple between his teeth again and surged into her.

“Close, so close, so very…”

Hook found that spot within her again and it was enough.

Wendy came again. A warm feeling spread out from her sex, into her belly and out into every limb, as far as her toes and fingertips. Every nerve felt alive. She tensed and held him within her walls that tightened and gripped his manhood. It had barely subsided when he found his own release, making three sharp thrusts and deep, guttural sounds as he spilled inside her.

They remained still for a moment, neither inclined to move and separate. Eventually he slid out of her and collapsed back on the settee. Wendy crawled up the length of him and coiled into his arms, resting her head on his chest to listen to the heavy thud of his heartbeat. It slowed and steadied.

They lay there not speaking for a while. Wendy was unsure what to say. Eventually she offered, “thank you.”

“Thank you?”

Hook chuckled. “I think it is I who should be thanking you, Wendy. I do not expect you to give thanks for that.”

“Then can we not be grateful to one another for it?”

“If it pleases you. I must ask, when did you develop such a filthy mouth? I have heard less salty language from the scurvy sea dogs aboard my ship.”

“Very, very recently. Does it shock you?”

“Not at all.”

“Does it excite you then?”

“From your mouth, in that moment, I think perhaps it did.”

“Perhaps I shall say it again. At the W.I. or to the vicar. I might become a full-time user of obscene profanity. I may become famous for it.”

They laughed together.

“I rather think you are still too much of a lady to resort to that. You know a great many other powerful words, Wendy. Even so I think I should like to hear you say it again, at the right moment of course.”

It felt both peculiar and natural, lying there talking nonsense and of nothing at all with James Hook. There was no awkwardness or discomfort. Even her body fitted perfectly into his in the inadequate space on the sofa. Wendy had almost forgotten who she was and where she was. She was both the teenage girl who had ran down the hill to him, but also the confident woman she became, perhaps the woman her experiences with Hook had allowed her to become.

“Are you hungry?” she said suddenly.

“I wouldn’t refuse a little sustenance, now that you mention it.”

“Then we should eat,” she declared.

Hook followed Wendy back into the kitchen. She had briefly contemplated dressing or covering herself. It seemed rather pointless under the circumstances. Hook certainly made no concessions to social mores and sat at the dining table completely naked as she made sandwiches.

“I’m sorry it’s nothing more substantial. I’m afraid a three-course dinner is out of the question at this hour.”

Hook shrugged and bit into the thick cut bread.

Feeling rebellious, Wendy pulled the sherry out of the cupboard and waved it at him.

“Drink?” she offered.

Hook struggled to conceal his disgust but shrugged in agreement anyway. Wendy poured two small glasses. Hook drank them both one after the other, a single mouthful for each. Wendy frowned at him in mock-fury.

“I am sparing you this misfortune of imbibing that terrible liquid.”

Wendy huffed and pouted, and he poured two more glasses. She sipped hers daintily.

“James,” she asked. “Do you think me a terrible person?”

“You are asking me, a pirate and a villain, that particular question. What answer do you wish me to give?”

“But…I am doing a terrible thing. Here. With you.”

“Tis done now and if you are to be damned to the eternal flames of hell, then there is nobody I would rather burn with.”

“Is it?”

Hook looked puzzled. “Is it what?”

“Done I mean. I rather hoped for more.”

“For more?”

Wendy licked her lips and was already sliding downward, sinking to her knees under the dining table, her mouth open.

“May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, my girl. In fact…”

He was silenced and could barely omit a groan as she took him in her mouth. She relished feeling him stiffen and swell, licking the length of him and encasing him in between her lips until he was fully engorged. Wendy adored it. She could taste herself and the traces of him. He tasted of sex and she savoured and hungered for it.

“I love this. I have missed this,” she drawled as she gripped the shaft tightly and licked and teased at the head, observing with amusement as his closed eyes flicked open to watch her. She swirled her tongue and traced it over the tip lasciviously, providing a show and imploring him to continue to watch her. He looked down at her, his eyes heavy lidded and almost black, occasionally making an approving sound. Wendy enjoyed her audience and felt her thighs grow sticky. The pulse of need began to thump again.

“Pleasure of all pleasures, Wendy, you will end me, I swear it. I will die not by the sword or the bullet, but from you.”

His words were lazy and slurred and it was Wendy who smirked to herself this time.

He drilled the hook into the oak table and his hand softly stroked at her hair, both grateful and encouraging. The cold stone floor hurt her knees, but she did not care. She felt she could and would endure almost anything for this pleasure.

Taking him in as far as she could, she felt him battling the urge to buck his hips and drive further into her throat. Wendy loved it, the fullness of him in her mouth, the thick spittle that formed. Her head bobbed as she greedily sucked him, raking her nails over his solid thighs rhythmically, almost challenging him to remain still.

Each grunt and groan of satisfaction she extracted from him pressed her continue. Desire was already mounting within her again. Soft against her lips yet hard as a rock, she allowed him to slide as deep into her mouth as she dared, almost to the back of her throat, then slowly back out. Wendy knew she was equally as capable of tormenting Hook as he was of her. She did it again, braver, further this time. Hook cried out and began to thrust. She took it and basked in it, the raw animalistic power of him plunging into her wet, willing mouth. She could taste it, those first salty drops on her tongue and she licked at it, searching for more. 

“Enough, I must be in you again.”

There was mild disappointment, she would have happily continued until he was sated, but the dull ache had grown sharper within her and she wanted that too. Wendy rose to her feet, empowered and in command, pushing him back into the chair and straddling his lap.

“Vixen, hell-cat, wild woman,” he purred, nuzzling into her neck.

Already wet with excitement, Wendy held him and lowered herself down, impaling herself on his cock, moaning low and hard as her starving sex once more felt filled, its hunger satisfied. She began to rise and fall, pushing herself up and sinking back down with agonising slowness, their eyes locked on each other. Drilling herself all the way down and burying him inside her, she rocked and worked him from her hips. The hook traced over her skin, featherlight so it did not cut her, but it spurred her on to grind down harder. She guided his hand to a pert and needy nipple, and he toyed and twisted at it. Wendy thrust her chest forward as she rode him, reminding him to still attend to those stiffened peaks. Hook plucked and dragged, more firmly and roughly each time. Wendy took it. The sharpness fed and sustained her desire. The more he gave the more she wanted and needed. As the sting subsided, she missed it and longed to feel it again. Wendy took his hand.

“Harder, again,” she instructed.

He obeyed and tugged and dragged at the now tender buds.

She leaned into him now, each time she drew herself up and fell back down providing added friction and working the swollen bundle of nerves that throbbed and cried out for attention.

“Darling, my darling. There has never been another like you. There will never be another again. I don’t think you have any idea how spectacular you are.”

“You will always be my first, James. Always.”

Wendy smiled and rose up again. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her feet found the floor and she squatted up and down, slow, then faster. Her thighs burned with the effort, but she kept on until she could do no more and settled back down onto his lap. He held her still for a while, nestled within her. They breathed together. She felt his thudding heartbeat vibrate and echo through her body. Wendy imagined she could stay there forever.

“Come, up, bend for me.”

She did as he asked, shoving the plates aside and bending over the dining table, propped up on her elbows, looking wantonly over her shoulder. He paused to admire her, running the edge of the hook down her back, stroking the soft curve of her bottom that pointed high in the air. She felt him there, parting her legs. Already open and dripping, with one thrust he was back inside her, pumping in and out of her from behind, strong and hard and masculine. It felt so good. He felt powerful, he captured her wrist beneath the hook. Wendy relished the restraint and relinquished herself to him.

A testing finger teased at that other entrance. That tight, wicked place that had fascinated and tempted her. She touched there, alone, curiously and uncertainly. Wendy had always drawn back, afraid of it and unsure if she should go further. She whined as he probed her there, lightly at first as if he was gauging how receptive she was. He pushed a little harder, Wendy made an approving sound. She feared it but wanted it.

“I wonder, Wendy, has a man ever…” Hook pressed there again, a little further.

“No,” she rasped. She felt it flowering with want.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you unsure?”

“No, do it. I want you to, please.”

He pressed deeper again and then withdrew. Wendy was virtually sobbing with need. He was still inside her. Her hand was freed and she heard the scraping of china against the tabletop and turned to see him drawing the butter dish towards him with his hook. Wendy could have wept. She knew what he intended. He dipped his forefinger in and coated it until it glistened. Hook returned it to her puckered entrance and pressed again, this time pushing it within her. She opened for him, it was tight and stinging but felt overwhelmingly good. Wendy sighed deeply. It pained her, there was a strangeness and a discomfort to it, but the stretching and burning was pure sensation. Her senses heightened; she was acutely aware of everything. Tenderly and smoothly he began to slide it back and forth. Wendy moaned. She became accustomed to it, he withdrew it completely, she sobbed for its return.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“Is it good, Wendy?”

“Yes, James, yes. It is good.”

Wendy ached. Hook’s cock still filled her, and he would still move within her softly.

“More, I want more.” she implored.

“Are you certain, Wendy?”

“Yes, please. I want you to.”

She was still afraid, her legs shook a little, but she craved it and immediately felt the loss when he took it away.

He took more butter, greasing a second finger and tried at her entrance. Now it burned strongly, but it was glorious. Pushing his fingers together, he pressed them into her, slowly, inching them further. Wendy gritted her teeth. There was pain as she stretched around them. Wendy questioned if she should stop it. He sensed her uncertainty.

“Is it too much? Say the word and I will stop. There is no need to…”

“No, don’t you dare.”

Wendy could not bare to be without it. He twisted them in, a little further then stopping to allow her to adjust. She took it and wanted it. Part of Wendy felt she deserved to hurt; it became a need. She rocked back, taking control of the speed and depth, bucking against him, against his cock, against his hand. Wendy thought she might burst from the fullness. She moaned in pleasure and pain for him, lost in it as his fingers and cock worked in tandem. Panting through the aching tightness, Wendy knew what she desired. It came from a place deep within her, she could not explain it.

“You know what I want,” she rasped, her breath ragged.

“Yes, I think I know.”

“Can you? Will you?”

“Yes, Wendy my love. I may hurt you. I will hurt you.”

There was a familiarity in his words, that took her back to another time. It felt right. If she should ever feel this sensation, it should be him. It must be him.

“I want it, please. I want that. From you, James. From no-one else.”

She exhaled as he pulled away from her. Wendy sat up on the edge of the table and Hook took her hand and led it to the dish. She understood what he wanted from her. Scooping it out she reached for him, coating him, making his cock slippery and shining. She tugged and stroked. It felt good, gliding in her hand. She looked down at it, slick and oiled by the butter. Her mouth was dry. Leaning towards her, he kissed her softly, tenderly, brushing her lips, stroking them with the tip of his tongue.

“Make yourself ready.”

Returning to her bent position, she waited. It hurt. It stretched and ached and stung as he breached her. He was gentle, inching deeper, stopping to allow her to become accustomed to the girth of him in that tight place. A little more, further, until he was fully inside her. The burn was deeper and stronger than the pain she had felt from his fingers, yet it was satisfying and made her feel complete. Breathing deeply, she absorbed it, until she could not imagine being without it.

“Move. Fuck me there, like that.”

That word came again, it was exactly the right moment. 

Hook did. Steadily at first, until her soft whines and the tightness of her took over him. It was paradise and Wendy needed and wanted it. The fullness was everything and overrode the hurt. Still gently, he pulled in and out and she stretched and spread for his cock. It was unearthly and yet it grounded her. Crying out wildly, tears formed, and Wendy sobbed openly.

“Don’t stop, don’t, please don’t.”

Hook pumped into her harder, plugging and filling her. Wendy was unravelling, finding untold joy in the stinging sensation. She felt she might come from that alone, but his fingertips found that fat and needy bud and rubbed at it until she broke and so did he. He burst inside her, coming into her as she came for his fingers, for his cock. It was glorious.

There was stillness and quiet.

“I love you, my Wendy.”

“I know,” she whispered.

They returned to the front room and lay down on the sofa. He held her. Hook slept, but Wendy could not rest. The dawn was creeping in and the light began to seep in through the gaps in the curtains. She carefully untangled herself from his arms and went to the window to look out at the new day. There on the horizon, just peeping out from behind the headland, she saw it. Hook’s ship bobbed gently on the now flat and calm sea, the Jolly Roger waving from its mast.

“James, wake up, wake up. It’s your ship. Come and see.”

He stirred to life.

“Come on, it’s your ship,” she urged him again.

“My ship is in pieces, dear Wendy.”

“It’s not. It there.” She tugged at him and he finally dragged himself to his feet, stretching and yawning.

“My dear girl, it simply cannot be…my ship! Praise the gods, there she is.”

Boyish joy danced across his face. He danced and hugged her, kissing her forehead in delight.

“Then you must go to them. What good is a pirate ship without its captain?”

Hook had already pulled on his clothes and was wrestling his foot into a boot. He stopped. Suddenly his glee disappeared, and he looked pensive and uncertain.

“Will you come with me, Wendy?”

Wendy sighed. Her gaze shot to the mantelpiece.

“No, James. I cannot. I cannot come with you.”

He nodded. He understood.

“Then I must leave you.”

“You must.”

He held her and kissed her lips, softly and tenderly. Wendy did not want it to end. She knew it must and it was her who broke away.

“Now, go,” she said forcing a smile and suppressing the tears she knew would come. “Or you will never get away and God forbid you might have to stay here, and be a farmhand, or worse, a bank clerk.”

Hook grimaced and chuckled at the thought.

She saw him to the door.

“Farewell, my beautiful Wendy.”

He kissed her again.

“Goodbye Villain. My beautiful Villain.”

He looked wistfully at her once more and set off to run back down toward the beach. She watched him, all the way into the distance, waving frantically at his ship. She stayed as a small rowing boat, she was certain was manned by the ever-faithful Smee, made its way to the shore to collect him and return him to where he belonged. Tears fell silently. The boat faded into the horizon and Wendy closed the door and she returned to the house.

Wendy crept up the stairs towards her bed. She should be wracked with guilt, but she was not. Perhaps she should resent Hook, for being washed up on the beach, for coming into her house and giving her a taste of another life, but that was all it was. A taste. Wendy could not run away with Hook. She had her life and it was the life she had chosen. She had not spent her days waiting and pining and she was not unhappy. There was never a day went by that she did not feel safe, and secure. She was wanted and though it was not the burning passion of a romance novel, she was loved, dearly and completely. She would not leave him. How could she? Wendy had been taking care of lost boys since she was a girl, she would not abandon this one now and she had no doubt in her mind that is what he would become without her. No, she would make him breakfast, they would attend the Church fete and have dinner with the boring bank manager and his charming wife. There had been a moment where she had wavered. In the briefest of seconds, the thrill of another life had tempted her. If she ran away with Hook, she would never see her children again, she would never hold her grandchildren and watch them grow; that was too high a price to pay.

Wendy stopped at the drawer and pushed it closed. She hovered for a moment and inched it open again, leaving only the narrowest of cracks. It would remain like that because no woman, no girl, or wife, mother, or for that matter grandmother, should ever completely close the door on their dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think, it is a fanfic writer's greatest reward x


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